


Like Colours, But If Colours Hated Me

by mister_jacobi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, M/M, Museums, This is inspired by a convo I once had, YouTuber Jon, about how Jon would be similar to BDG, if only he had more joy in his heart, there will still be spooky stuff, yearning and daydreaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_jacobi/pseuds/mister_jacobi
Summary: The title of the video reads "I believe in ghosts and so should you"- Do I want to watch it?- I'm begging you, that guy is going mad trying to explain why he believes he's once been haunted by a ghost spider.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 63
Kudos: 278





	1. 1

There are certain perks that working at the museum brought with it.  
For example, one can spend their lunch break looking at art, admiring it and appreciating it the way it should be.

Every stroke of the brush seems so calculated, so loving, so tender. Every line seems so wonderful. Martin has often thought that he could write poems over poems about the hands of the nymphs, alone, as they mourn Icarus. His arms hanging loosely inside the loops of his wings, the curve of them holding his body atop of the rock. How beautiful the water, the textures, the pain in their eyes as they look up at him. Look upon his beauty, lost.

  
“Now, this is a story we all have heard before. Icarus who foolishly flew with waxen wings so close to the sun, they melted and doomed him to certain death as he fell into the sea far below. This, 'The Lament for Icarus' shows his death, the nymphs mourning him, cradling him. The painter, Herbert J. Draper, however, must have been careless while reading the story, as the wings are still attached to him, no burn to be seen, no feather lost.  
It is indeed a beautiful painting, despite the error in storytelling. Just looking at the strokes and textures....”  
Every line on his face, the graceful movements of his hands as he points to the different parts of the painting. The glint in his eyes, the tilt of his lips, the soft wave of his hair, the extravagant curve of his lashes, the tip of his tongue as it peeks out to moisturise his lips, the huskiness of his voice, the click-clacking of the heel of his shoes, the small exhale he gives instead of a chuckle, the...  
“Martin, break's over”

  
He flinches, “oh yes yes of course,” he stumbles over his own words, unable to think of anything semi-intelligent as he faces Tim, grinning and raising an eyebrow at him.  
“So what is it this time? Admiring the paintings,” he signs towards Icarus, “or the real work of art” his hand shifts just the tiniest bit towards the left, where He stands, in all His glory, still talking and explaining something or another. He looks so beautiful in his well-fitting suit, his long dark hair pulled up into a neat bun.  
“Cruel mockery will not make your life any easier, you know?”  
“Oh, I know, but it makes my life so much more fun.”  
  
Martin has started working at the museum's cafe a year ago, so he could earn some extra money next to his studies. He has always been very interested in art, so he guessed it was quite a good plan to start working in an environment where he felt at ease. Before working there, he used to come by the museum, solely to write poems about what he was observing. Something so entirely human, Martin sometimes thought to himself, this ability to enjoy art and find beauty in everything.  
Martin has been so happy with his work, surrounded by kind people, art, inspiration, this all changed however, once He started working there. He's the bane of his existence, dragging him down into deeper and deeper daydreams, Martin has not had a single day in which he didn't find himself lost in thought and distracted by this man.

The first time he saw Him, Martin was sure he was observing one of the paintings coming to life. It must have been, how else could one explain this effortless beauty, this elegance in every move, the way his skin seemed to glow in the sun, his.. everything. How could Martin possibly look at this man and view him as an academic, a scholar, when he looked deserving of worship.

“Are you ever going to speak to him?”  
“I don't even know his name.”  
“Really? You've been doing nothing but staring at him for three months now and you haven't even managed to get his name?” Tim is outright laughing at him now and Martin does not find that nice at all, how he could ever think that Tim is a kind man, he does not know. “Lucky for you, I did.” He says, leaning in closer to Martin, the look on his face almost sinful in its pride.  
“Oh no. I don't want to know his name.”  
“Why not?" A frown found its place on Tim's face, confusion evident. Obviously he wasn't a man that needed to ignore reality often. "Do I even want to know what you have been referring to him as? An angel?” He pauses, “Or a demon, rather? The beautiful stranger, leading our dear innocent Martin down a path of sinful thoughts and lust.” Tim gasps and puts a hand above his heart. Martin finds himself almost annoyed at his friend's antics, but only almost.  
“What makes you think that I've been referring to him at all? He's a stranger, we have never talked.” They haven't, talked that is, never. Whenever the stranger comes to the cafe, Martin – coincidentally, absolutely unintentionally – finds himself distracted with anything else to do. That does not mean, however, that Martin hasn't started making guesses what his name might be. He's been praying that it may be something as beautiful as his appearance, something harsh on the tongue, perhaps or a melody of its own or perhaps something intellectual and smart just like he is. He's been awfully scared the stranger's name might be something as ordinary as his own, something as boring as his own, the stranger doesn't deserve that.  
He deserves a name like poetry.

And The Stranger is all he's ever been referring to as. The man he wouldn't dare meet out of fear it might ruin the picture he's been creating in his mind. This idea of a man that might not even exist. Is it unfair to the stranger that Martin put him on this pedestal and denies him any real-world interaction? That he steals his face for the sole purpose of satisfying his own yearning for tenderness he knows he would never receive in real life?  
Perhaps, but at the end of the day, Martin really really really doesn't care.  
“Jesus, you're a completely lost cause,” and this might be the meanest thing anyone has ever said to him while smiling and sounding so compassionate. ”But perhaps it's good you're sticking to your imagination. I've been told he's less...” he pauses as if searching for a kind way of putting it, “Enticing when you talk to him. He tends to be a bit prick-ish. Like, snobby.”

Martin really doesn't know how to tell Tim that he doesn't care whether or not his personality is as lovely as his face. He has picked this man to be the object of his affection but only from afar. Getting to know each other has never been part of the plan.

Martin has been painting his own picture of what The Stranger might be like, how he might act, a lot of times his ideas of a fairytale prince got mixed up with what any real person was able to pull off. He imagined him to be tender, to be romantic, has imagined him to recite poetry with his beautiful voice and sing him to sleep. Martin has sometimes been imagining him to be gentle when he touches him, for his fingertips to carefully trace his curves, for his lips to tenderly kiss every centimetre of his body. Other times he has imagined him to be rough. For his hands to be calloused, to be cold and hard against his skin, for his fists to form just a little too tight around his wrists.  
He only knows The Stranger from watching him at work, only knows the person he pretends to be or perhaps finds himself to be when he talks about art, explains a painting, presents extra information. He knows him to be passionate, Martin believes that he sees love in The Stranger's eyes whenever he gets to the most interesting parts of every story.  
He doesn't want to know what The Stranger is actually like, he doesn't want the magic to end and doesn't want to admit to himself how very unprofessional it was of him to view him like this.  
It's a thought he's been pushing away for a while now, forcing himself to ignore the violation the other would feel if he knew of his dreams.  
And so all he says is “one more reason not to talk to him.”  
“I suppose.”

  
With that, Martin goes back to work, minding his own business and definitely not looking up every so often in hopes of finding The Stranger close to him, in observing (a part of Martin's mind that sounds strangely like Tim chimes in to correct him. _It's not observing, Martin, you're stalking him_ ) distance.  
The rest of the day goes by boringly monotonous, nothing new, nothing interesting, just Martin serving the customers, serving tea, serving coffee, serving some snacks.  
It's uneventful to say the least, just as he likes it.

And then he goes home, having spent another day without talking to the beautiful stranger who has not seen the need to stop by the cafe, not yet indicated in any way the wish to get to know him, or maybe that he's as enthralled with him as Martin is.  
He has expected that much. But in his mind, Martin likes to imagine The Stranger coming up to the counter and telling him with his low, dark voice, that he's been noticing Martin's eyes on him. That he's been waiting for Martin to come and talk to him. That he found himself unable to wait any longer and now has to speak to him, declare his love and ask him out on a date. Martin's very much aware that none of that will ever happen, but one can dream, right?  
  
At the end of Martin's shift, The Stranger still has done no such things, however. No declaration, no big gestures, hasn't even ordered one coffee.  
And so Martin takes off his apron, packs his things and leaves. Going home, he does what he always does: Gets himself some take out, makes himself some tea, turns on the TV and enjoys his time off. Simple but enough for him. He is a man of little demands and even littler complains.

In the middle of his favourite show, however, Martin gets a message from Tim, which is not odd. They talk frequently over the phone.  
It's a link to a YouTube video, which isn't all that weird either, they often tend to show each other things they find on the internet. (Videos of animals doing cute things (Martin), the latest internet gossip (Tim), poetry slam (Martin started that one but Tim is now actually interested in it and sends him cool videos as well when he stumbles upon something he thinks fits into Martin's niche), Memes (Both))  
What IS weird, though, is that the thumbnail seems... familiar.  
As in, the person on the thumbnail looks very familiar.  
As in, he knows this face very well seeing as he has been staring at it from afar for about three months now.

>   
>  **Tim: Isn't that your mystery man?**
> 
> **Tim: Who'd have guessed he's a youtube sensation lmao**

And indeed, it is The Stranger. Martin would recognize him everywhere.  
In the thumbnail, he's wearing a suit, a little less chic than for work, but still a good suit. He looks oddly young, though and Martin realizes that either this video is much older than the quality makes him believe or he's been miscalculating The Stranger's age all along. With the graying hair and the neat look, Martin has been sure that The Stranger was closer to fourty than thirty but in this picture with his hair open and without the glasses, he realizes that The Stranger is probably only starting his thirties. Martin finds himself staring at the picture, so far he has only seen him from further away, avoiding him whenever they were close by, this is the first time he's able to actually see him up close. He wishes The Stranger would wear his hair open more often, as having it fall over his shoulders in beautiful curls, only makes his beauty more ethereal, more out-of-this-world, more... Martin has to take a sip from his tea and put a hand over his chest, where his heart is beating so quickly he fears he may have to see a Doctor.

_-So what brings you here today?_

_-Oh, nothing, I just saw a man so beautiful I had a heart attack. Nothing to worry about. (Maybe his mother has been right all along, being gay IS dangerous)_

Martin doesn't know what to answer to Tim, or if he wants to watch the video. It looks interesting with The Stranger (Martin forces himself not to look at the username) staring straight at the camera, having a half-crazed look on his face and the title reading: _I believe in ghosts and so should you._

Odd, but not unwelcome.

>   
>  **Martin: Do I want to watch it?  
>  **
> 
> **  
> **  
>  Tim: I'm begging you. That guy is going mad trying to explain why he believes he's once been haunted by a ghost spider. 
> 
> **Tim: And now he's talking about Mothman being sexy? I am confused but somehow into it.  
>  **

Martin decides that this is a good moment as any to put down his phone and go to bed, for some reason this information makes The Stranger look a lot less mysterious but oddly enough no less dashing and even more charming. Perhaps Martin should rethink his type.


	2. Perfect Body. Perfect Soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while. Sorry. Trying to get back into writing but somehow the world is in shambles and I am but a tired student overwhelmed by the intensity of existence.   
> Hope you're doing great, though!

Martin doesn't know what to do. He watches Him as he always does only now he is very painfully aware of how weird that is. Before the video, The Stranger was just that, a stranger. Some person who happens to work at the same place as Martin, who looks like an angel and speaks like a god and Martin was fine with that. Was fine with never getting to know him. Was fine with admiring from afar. Now The Stranger is the guy who makes videos online and talks about ghosts as if they were real but still looks like an angel. Now he has layers and it's off-putting to have to realize that the guy Martin has been semi stalking is a person and not just figment of his imagination. Martin wants him to stay fictional. He doesn't want to know his name, doesn't want to know his interests, doesn't want to know that he believes in ghosts but now Martin knows that he calls himself The Archivist online and that's weird and oddly endearing and Martin doesn't want him to be oddly endearing. He wants The Stranger to be beautiful and mysterious and he wants to watch him from a distance only and not know anything about him.  
He has watched the video, and now understands Tim's messages, that he had woken up to the other day, all varying versions of calling The Stranger insane, weird and oddly hot _“You know, in that rat kind of way? At work, he looks so put together, like... I'd trust him to do my taxes. But man he's completely unhinged”_  
He also has to admit to himself that he liked what he saw. He liked watching the other man talk himself more and more into despair. Watching him start out by walking into the frame, holding a cup of questionable content (It was Energy Drink, he clarified later in the video) and looking well put together, just the way Martin got to know him. As he kept talking though, he started to let go of some layers of his suit, opened his neat bun and let his hair fall down to his shoulders, took off his glasses and started talking more and more rapidly, gesturing more and more wildly all the while dancing on the line between hysterics/paranoia and being plain entertaining. Honestly, Martin wasn't sure if The Stranger meant any of the things seriously, perhaps this was just his online persona which he has carefully crafted, made up stories proven by facts for which he has put much more research in than should be necessary.   
He just kept this semi-professional hue about him, even while near sobbing and close to a breakdown as he talks about the ghost spider.   
“You can always just talk to him, you know? There is no godly law forbidding it”  
“Brilliant idea, Sasha. Let me just go up to him like 'hi, yeah so I've been watching you ever since you started working here and I must say, sir, you are very beautiful. Oh yes, also recently I started watching your YouTube channel too and I am simultaneously confused and turned on. How about coffee on Tuesday?”  
Sasha just laughs and shakes her head, “maybe... try not to come off quite as strong.”  
“So it turned you on,” Tim came back with coffee for the three of them   
From all the people who could have possibly listened in on this declaration, Tim was only the second-worst option. “I- I mean..” Martin stumbles over his own words, unsure what to say, how to save himself. “Obviously – Obviously this was an exaggeration...”   
“Obviously,” Tim agrees, a smile on his face that said 'you can't lie to me', the same time that Sasha answers, “obviously,” eyes wide and nodding too intensely for it to be anything other than sarcasm.   
Martin decides that he should go home tonight and rethink his choice in friends.  
“Now now, dear Sasha don't you go and mock our dear Martin,” the suppressed chuckle is evident in Tim's voice and Martin finds it too endearing to be mad at him.   
“You're both being assholes,” he shakes his head and can't help but smile right back. “But honestly? I really don't want to get to know him.” Martin doesn't need to say 'he's way out of my league' and 'I wouldn't be able to handle the heartbreak of rejection' or 'keeping a distance means in my mind I can still pretend that I am worthy of being loved and not all tender feelings I encounter are doomed to be stumped upon', he knows he's said all of that before when they went out for drinks and he had a few too many. He also knows that they thought it was due to the alcohol and that he doesn't literally always feel like that. Martin intends on keeping it that way. “Also, this is entirely superficial, so.. I don't want to project my physical attraction onto an emotional level only for then to realize, that I actually don't have any interest in him as a person,” he shrugs, “you know?”  
The two of them look at him for a moment, full of surprise. “I mean.. fair. That's actually very mature. You're right,” Sasha nods. “That's very considerate and you're right, it would not be kind to him if you acted on that attraction alone.”  
Tim nods in agreement, still stunned into silence, before he mumbles, “I have not considered that.”  
He probably gets that often, Martin thinks, glancing back at The Stranger.   
The group around him dissolves slowly and then he stands there all alone and Martin can literally watch the tension fall from his body. From the distance, he can still observe Him letting out a deep breath and his shoulder slumping, can see exhaustion take over his wonderful features as if he has taken off a mask and all that's left is the man from the videos. Martin feels dirty having witnessed that. It's a tiny slip in his composure but Martin feels as if he has watched him have a breakdown. He doesn't know why.   
And then The Stranger is coming over.   
“I guess it's his break,” Tim says, already getting ready to take his order, while Martin would be the one to make the coffee.   
Coming closer, though, Martin can't help but be impressed by the way his mask seems to slip right back into place. His eyes, that have seemed dull for a millisecond, lit up again. He straightens his back again and strides over with confidence and Martin wonders if perhaps, there has been no slip at all. Maybe it's him projecting, him wishing to see something in The Stranger that's not really there. He's so focused on Him, he doesn't even realize Sasha had said goodbye and went back to her own work at the souvenir shop. 

“One black coffee, please” his voice sends a shiver down his spine, it's embarrassing, really.  
“Ah as sweet as your lovely personality,” Tim says and with a start, Martin realizes that Tim wasn't just teasing when he said he had talked to him, knew him (were they on friendly terms? Why had he not mentioned it?)   
An exasperated sigh escapes The Stranger's lips, paired with a dry chuckle. Martin's actually impressed at how on point that reaction is: sigh and chuckle, the Tim Stoker experience. He catches himself smiling adoringly and isn't sure whether this adoration is earned by Tim or The Stranger, so he decides – as any grown-up would do – to ignore it entirely.   
Martin hands the order over and he pretends not to feel heat rise to his face as their hands brush for a moment.  
 _They're rougher than I thought._ Shoots through his head and he is actually surprised, so he takes the freedom to actually look at them and hopes he doesn't come off as weird. He had expected The Stranger's hands to be soft and tender, in most of his fantasies they were. He had considered them an artist's hands: elegant and trained and coordinated. From afar it had seemed that way.  
But now... in Martin's less romantic envisions, he had imagined him to be rough and strong and careless, and that's what the hand reaching for the cup actually looks like.   
Calloused and even a little bruised, tiny cuts on the side of his index finger, that Martin could not identify where they're coming from.   
He stares for too long and the stranger flinches back from the accidental touch. Martin looks up to meet His eyes (which were of the most intense and beautiful green Martin has ever seen. He saves that in a folder in his mind labeled 'for later consideration' fully intending on writing a poem about the iridescence of their beauty). He notices the eyebags that seem so deep-set, Martin wonders if they're hereditary or if they can be helped by sleep. He doesn't think they need to go, though those dark bruises give him an on-edge-look, something rough he hasn't notice before that fits so well with the calloused hands and wild look he remembers from the video.  
“What is it?” The Stranger asks, confusion evident on his face, in the fold of his eyebrows, the curl of his mouth, the wrinkle of his nose, the squint of his eyes – oh god his eyes.  
Now, Martin has this gift of always saying the absolutely worst thing that can come to your mind in any given situation, especially when faced with ethereal beauty and stress. It's always a safe bet. And so instead of saying _sure, here you go_. Or _please marry me_. Martin decides to criticize his decision.   
“You look like you can't sleep very well. Are you sure you should drink more caffeine?”   
The silence that follows this magical question is anything but friendly. Martin is pretty sure, he can see Tim mouth the words 'what the fuck' from the corner of his eyes. The beautiful Stranger, even more beautiful when annoyed, Martin has to sadly admit to himself – probably something about the curve of his eyebrows and the glint in his eyes, the pout of his mouth, the sharpness of his face – takes a deep breath. “If I wanted health advice, I'd have gone to a physician, as it happens though, you are not a doctor, you are a barrister, aren't you?”  
Martin nods, feeling his face grow hot. 

“Then please, I'm begging you, honestly, just give me that cup of coffee”  
Martin briefly wonders why he has to exist in this pitiful state of constant embarrassment. Is he not a good person? Does he not deserve to be happy? Does he not deserve to pine after a beautiful stranger without the constant fear of getting to know him?   
What a cruel world indeed. 

“Of course. Sorry. Here you go.” He hands it over and with that turns back to his machine.   
“Bye Tim,” he hears The Stranger say, before leaving. Martin is pretty sure his steps are much faster than necessary, he's probably hurrying to get away from him as quickly as possible.   
“You know,” Tim says once again suppressing a chuckle, “I did tell you that he's a prick.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always: come and shout at me at miister-jacobi.tumblr.com


	3. Young And A Menace To My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep to a schedule of posting on Wednesdays.  
> I hope all of you guys are doing fine.

A new notification pops up on Martin's phone: _I wasted three weeks of my life on this – The Archivist._ Martin wishes he could pretend that he has anything better to do and does not jump to press play. One would think, that rainy weather, a bus drive to work, and a poetry collection would fit well together, but somehow the video just seems more entertaining to him. And so the video starts: The Archivist (Martin still didn't get hold of his name and at this point, he's too afraid to ask) strides into the picture, looking as sharp as always in his suit and looks at the camera, an easy-going smile on his face like an especially laidback professor. “Wouldn't it be nice if there was a place where you could find all the legitimate sightings of the supernatural in and around London, categorized and archived, sourced, and followed up? I think that would be nice.”  
Martin watches wide-eyed, as his intro plays its ominous violin music. Martin has never been interested in the occult, hasn't believed in ghosts and magic ever since he was a child.

He can still remember running to his mother one night after having watched a horror film with one of his friends the day before, begging her to console him and help through the night. He doesn't know what he had expected, perhaps a hug? An “It's alright, don't worry. I'm here and I will not let anything harm you” It had been foolish, really, because instead, she told him off for going behind her back and watching this film in the first place. “Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you not take me seriously? Do you think I care whether you watch a stupid film or not? I don't but what I care about is being able to sleep through the night, so next time you think you're so much smarter than your old mother you can go and figure your problems out on your own.” After that, she had started locking the door at night. He's still easily spooked, but he doesn't actually believe in ghosts, of course. In fact, he didn't think anyone over the age of thirteen still believed in the supernatural, especially not well-educated men that look like they belong in a painting or have jumped out of poems.   
But you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, right?   
  


Martin does not believe in any of this but ever since he started watching The Archivist's videos, he's been more and more interested in the things he talks about and finds himself thinking about the theories long after the video ended. He finds himself more often wondering if perhaps there is a true notion to what The Archivist is saying.

“Or at least I thought it would be nice!” sounds his sudden voice, interrupting his own opening and Martin's thoughts. Suddenly he looks so much more like the man Martin had met at work, with heavy eye bags and furrowed brows, looking at the camera with the sort of despair that's not unlike the look he gave Martin when asking for his coffee. Though that's a topic he really needs to stop thinking about.

“I swear to god, the first time I started filming this video I thought it would be an easy change of pace. I mean how many legitimate, and recorded sightings could there really have been in and around London in the past five years? 20? 30? How about more than 100?” He turns to look at the camera from another angle and Martin's heart does something embarrassing that he will pay no further mind to.

“So I planned about three hours for filming this and,” he pauses and sighs, filled with regret, “because I am a mess of a human being, I thought this could be easily done in one take and did it at night. Then I noticed the sun coming back up, looked at the clock and realized it was already five am, my recording studio was a mess, the video completely useless and I had accomplished absolutely nothing.” The video now shows to recordings, the current one and then on the left what was apparently the night he spent working on this video for the first time, he looks deranged, panicked and his studio really did look like an utter mess, Martin finds that oddly charming.   
“I had an eight am shift at my day job that day, so I went out to grab some breakfast, but it started to rain, so I ate a chicken sandwich, drenched.” The video now actually shows footage of him, how he ate his sandwich, looking like a wet rat. “And then I had to go back home, change, go to work and you won't believe it,” he chuckles there, looking up towards the ceiling as if he himself can't believe that actually happened, “the guy selling me the coffee there asks me whether I'm sure I need more caffeine because I look like I can't sleep very well. I repeat, the guy whose job it is to sell coffee asks whether I think that's clever, health-wise.” Martin's heart drops and he has to swallow down his feelings of regret. “In case you're watching this now, which I really hope you don't because that would be weird: Fuck you,” Martin is officially deceased now, fully aware that he will never be able to go back to work and look him in the eyes again, “and thank you for being a compassionate human being, I'm very sorry for being rude but also I think you were being rude first.” _  
Oh._

Did he just thank him? Now that's unexpected. He also told him to fuck off but in Martin's book, that's far better than he could have hoped.

“That has nothing to do with anything, I just wanted you to know my pain. Because against what other people say,” there's a link now to another video, a collaboration with a channel called “WhatTheGhost”, that Martin has never heard of before but is more than willing to get to know.   
“I know how to share and talk about emotions. I am not talking about anyone, in particular, Georgie, I just felt like I should SHARE this little story of mine.”

The Archivist takes another sip and looks at the camera

“So I had to start filming all over again, and when I finished that I had three hours of footage that I was able to whittle down into an hour-long video that was very educational and extremely entertaining.” He pauses. “JUST KIDDING. IT WAS BORING AS HELL. But just as all hope seemed lost, I had an epiphany:” There's a cut to him as he probably recorded the original video 2.0, “I'm going to throw myself into the sea.”   
It cuts back to the actual video, “luckily, before I could do that Georgina,” another link to WhatTheGhost's channel, “stopped me and told me to drop that topic.” Martin finds himself smiling at the video, a spurt of tender feelings in his chest.

“So after trying to categorize everything I have just one thing to say to sum all of that up and to share my conclusion with you: London is a mess and no one should live here. Sorry, but this is all you're getting today.”

  
And with that, the video ends.

So that's what led up to the moment that Martin had officially signed his death certificate and ruined his chances of a) having a normal conversation with him and b) having Tim let him live anything down. He can't speak of anything else, anymore. _“Hey Martin, try not to insult any more customers today, yeah?” And “Martin, you really need to tell me how to flirt like that.” And “Martin, we sell coffee, of course, that's not healthy, but you can't get far with honesty in this economy, just look at Jeff Bezos, he's still trying to make people believe that he doesn't suck!”_

Deeply caught up in his own mind, Martin does not notice another person hurrying from a side street into his direction, does not realize that they are both arriving at the same spot, at the same time and would end up crashing into each other. Only when it is already too late, does Martin look up, right as the smaller frame of the other man collides with him.  
Martin stands steady, but the other tumbles and loses his balance enough for his glasses to slip off his nose, Martin is quick enough to react to catch him and keep him from falling  
“Sorry. Are you okay?” he asks, hurrying to let go of the person once again. This question is a reflex by now. He doesn't register who he's even speaking to, doesn't care that it's not his fault they collided, and honestly just wants to make sure he didn't accidentally hurt that poor sap.

He already seems stressed enough. But then he actually looks at the other man and first, he only sees a mess of dark curls that fall unruly around his head after a second of delay, though the picture in front of him comes together to form a human being: it's the Archivist. His heart skips a beat, they've never been that close, have only spoken once, and that had ended in a little too much embarrassment for Martin to bare.  
“God da-” he catches himself, takes a deep breath, and bites his tongue before looking up at the obstacle that was Martin himself. “I'm fine,” he says finally, sounding sour like somehow Martin was at fault for him running into him as if he had chosen to stand in his way. Martin likes to pretend and tell himself that under normal circumstances he would have said something and stood up for himself (he wouldn't have), but as it is, the circumstances are not normal and he doesn't have the mind to say anything but: “Oh,” as he's looking right into the face of the man who he has just watched a video with, has just been thinking about and has absolutely not expected to run into outside the museum.

The other man still scowls up at him but slowly his expression changes from annoyance to confusion to recognition. “Oh,” he echoes and Martin does not know why he would say 'Oh' he's almost ready to get offended. Being dumbfounded is his thing. Being speechless is something that happens to him. He basically has the copyrights on that, so why did the other man look just as surprised?

“Are the glasses okay?” Martin asks, at a lack of anything better to say and The Archivist just nods. “Fine, they... I mean...” He looks up at him and away once more to Martin's surprise. “I've dropped them so often, really I'm shocked they can still be considered an actual pair of glasses instead of a possible weapon.” He mumbles and it shocks Martin to an extend that actually is humiliating.   
He has already recognized his online persona as what it is: an act, somehow though he hadn't considered his work persona to be just as much of a lie.  
Somehow he is even more endearing.  
Martin takes the moment to actually look at The Archivist once again and find to his surprise, that his glasses really are one big mess. The frame is bent, the glasses scratched up and Martin doesn't understand how he has ever considered them to look elegant. And so he smiles, “I'm surprised they let you take those into work. You can probably ruin paintings if some shard comes loose.”

And that's when it happens: Martin's proof that some sort of god must exist because the man laughs and Martin can not identify it as anything but angelic.

It's short and more of a snort than an actual laugh but it's enough for Martin's heart to drop.   
“You're right, I'm a menace.”  
“Yes, first the paintings, then you run people down in the street. What comes next?”  
“Indeed,” he says and their eyes meet for just a moment and his eyebags are still deep and dark and beautiful just like his eyes, which glint with something that seems to be of so much more importance and depth than this stupid rhetorical question, “what does?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: hit me up at tumblr.miister-jacobi.com  
> Also, look at this sick Jon-As-BDG fanart: https://purrpurrpurrcat.tumblr.com/post/618061968269524992/


	4. Whisper Sweet Nothings And I'll Pretend Not To Hear

They walk to the museum together, actually talking. And piece by piece, the marble statue that the man has become to him unravels into a person instead.

“Jon,” he says his name is and as if they hadn't just collided with one another, holds out his hand for Martin, looking not like he wants to shake hands but like he thinks it's what's supposed to happen after an introduction. Martin eyes it for a moment, noticing a fresh cut on his index finger, he takes it, “Martin. It's nice to actually meet you.” Jon, he thinks, Jon. As in Jonathan, as in: an elegant name, elegant just like he is, just like he deserves. Mundane enough to be human but so sweet on his tongue: Jon. Jonathan. The hand he holds is _big and rough_. The kind of hand Martin would have expected on someone who works with their hands, not someone who talks a lot about art and makes videos. Selective perception, he thinks to himself. He only notices the things he wants to notice about a person. He already has the image of him burned into his mind with all those fictive aspects, like soft and elegant hands. Perhaps he's a painter himself, Martin had wondered once and after that accepted as fact. Now though, he has to accept that his hands are calloused and uncared for, dry and covered in little cuts and Martin _needs to know_ where that is coming from.

“Likewise,” he says and a tiny smile tugs Jon's lips. Martin's heart drops, then they let go and his hand suddenly feels very empty and very cold. He decides to ignore that because he has no right to feel like that and instead asks: “why were you running?”

“Oh,” Jon says then, looking away and Martin tries VERY hard not to think about the implications and the beauty that is him blushing. “I'm late to work,” which is a weird thing to say for someone currently strolling next to him down the street, so Martin asks: “Really?”

And Jon sighs. “Not really, I just... I hate being late,” he pauses, “or on time?” He looks awfully uncomfortable, something Martin has noticed neither on camera nor at work so far. He usually has a swagger about him, a professional air of belonging, of knowing what he's doing. Now, though, he looks like he might as well jump into ice-cold water; like he'd prefer that over the idea of having an actual human interaction, a real conversation with a stranger. _“I know how to share,”_ echoes in Martin's head and he fears that this Georgina might be right in her estimation, that he does not in fact have any idea of how to share.

Jon takes a deep breath and sighs with so much irritation, that Martin considers apologizing. He shakes his head for a second as if hoping it would sort out his thoughts. His hair is getting loose, the hair tie with the job to hold it back and tame it, utterly helpless in doing so. A couple of strands fall into his face and frame it in a picturesque way that Martin wants to write poems about.

Then Jon starts anew, pressing out every word as if it gave him physical pain, Martin wonders how hard he has to fight himself just to have this conversation and tries to connect what he's seeing with the eloquent man on video or the intellectual wonder he sees at work.

“Let me correct that: I like being on time, but at work, if I come when my shift starts, I will arrive simultaneously with Mister Bouchard,” he says his name like a curse, like if he dares to speak it too loudly, the man will hear it and come to haunt him at night, “and I do. Not. Want that.” There's an accentuation on every word, as he hisses them through gritted teeth and an implication that Martin is afraid to try and figure out, so instead, he focuses on how he looks when on edge, when dramatic, how his voice sounds in all its intonations - because that's easier.

“Oh,” is all he says because he's bad with words and doesn't know how to ask if he wants to talk about it without sounding mothering, because he learned the hard way that people usually don't find that attractive at all. However, of course, he does not want to appear as attractive to Jon, no way. His heart once again tries itself at parkour and Martin doesn't dare to meet his eyes.

“But you're not hurrying anymore? Won't you arrive with him?”

Jon looks at him like he's stupid, “no?”

“No?” Martin frowns and really feels stupid.

“No, of course not. I'm arriving with you, aren't I?”

“Oh. I suppose you are.”

An awkward silence settles over them and is only broken by Jon trying to speak once again: “Sorry for being so rude last time, I had a rough day and... just,” he lets out a breath, annoyed with himself as if he usually doesn't apologize. As if he's not quite sure what he's doing. He looks like he's pulling strings. “Just sorry,” he finishes with a grumble that makes Martin feel as if he should apologize instead for putting him into that situation, and does not meet his eyes.

“Oh it's okay,” Martin laughs awkwardly and suppresses the need to fumble and ramble nervously. He had not expected two apologies in one day and because he's the worst poet alive, he does not think before saying: “I'm pretty sure I was being rude first,” which is a direct QUOTE from the video he had decided he would not mention to Jon.

He feels the air physically grow colder between them as Jon eyes him (and how wonderfully intense his eyes are!), likely to figure out whether that was a coincidence or intention.

Before Martin can say anything to save and/or redeem himself, though, Jon pushes the doors open and they enter the Museum. Elias is there, just standing (waiting?) and Martin does Not like that. Jon had not elaborated what he did to be... bad but everything Martin has heard about Elias made him feel squeezy.

Jon throws him _a look_ , it's sharp and calculating but beneath that Martin thinks he sees fear.   
Then he turns and leaves, “Elias,” he hears him say with a nod in his direction and the other man's face lights up with a smile that Martin finds almost lecherous and it takes all his will power not to gag.   
For a moment he fears he might look just like that whenever he loses himself in thought when admiring him. The idea sickens him, he knows he's not inconspicuous but he sure hopes he looks like less of an ass. The scene in front of him, he decides is non of his business. He has no right to be snooping around any more than he already is, he just puts the information that He Does Not Like Elias and Something About Him Is Fishy away in a little folder in his brain titled “for later consideration” and turns around to leave and find his own little work corner, his lovely little coffee shop.

Tim is already there, so is Sasha and both are looking at him with big grins on their lips and disbelief in their eyes. “Did you just arrive here together? Martin Kartin Blackwood, what did I miss?” Tim asks and jumps over the counter towards him.   
“That,” Martin says with a snort, “is absolutely not my middle name.”

Tim wraps an arm around his shoulders, a conspiring smile between the two of them, “tell me everything.”

Martin takes just a second to look back to where  _Jon_ was still standing with Elias and oddly enough, he could swear that Jon was looking right back at him, but that was idiotic, right? He would have no reason to do so. 

“He apologized,” Martin said then and was shocked and embarrassed at how _breathless_ he sounds. One look and he forgets to breathe, perhaps he needs some help, but Tim has other things in mind, as he pulls him closer and his eyes light up. “I know I watched the video, poor guy had just the worst day and then you come and make worse,” he laughs as if that wasn't the worst thing Martin could have done and Martin wishes to be consumed by the ground, but then he continues: “and then HE apologizes. Honestly considering what I've heard about him that's a fucking miracle!” 

Now that's interesting, “what do you mean?”

“They say that Jon has started a fight with almost everyone on the museum staff, especially those above him in the food chain,” Sasha chimes in, knowing that Tim would drag the answer out into made up stories and hearsay.   
“Really?” Martin asks, because sure perhaps Jon's work persona wasn't lovely per se, but he was (sweet) polite enough.

“Yes, really Martin” Tim is really laughing now, “and not once has he apologized, he's the one that starts the fight, he doesn't end them. I guess it's just easier to do so on a video that's impersonal and will probably never be seen by the recipient of his apology?” he shrugs, “who knows.”

Martin knows, because he had come up to him to apologize privately and that's... that's something awfully interesting.  
“What's that look on your face?” Sasha asks and the soft smile on her face looks like she already knows the answer and is only waiting for him to her suspicion.

“He apologized again this morning before we arrived,” Martin sounds a lot too dumbfounded for his own liking, his heart dropping to his knees. And then there's silence and he's at least a little relieved to see, that Tim looks just as dumbfounded as he feels, only Sasha's smile doesn't falter.   
“Might it be,” she starts, her smile shifting into a grin now, “that our dear Jon isn't immune to your charm?”

Martin splutters at that and feels himself going red, “nononono” he raises his hands as if trying to physically push that away from him so it wouldn't dare to settle in his mind, so it wouldn't dare to manifest, so he wouldn't dare to actually start believing that. “We work together, he gets his coffee here everyday,” he tries to reason, “that's why he apologized. We- we don't even know each other!” 

Martin is starting to feel hot all over, is the room's temperature rising or is that just him?   
“Of course, Romeo. Just keep telling yourself that,” Tim slaps his hand hard against Martin's shoulder and he has to try to keep his balance.  
Sasha just leans further over the counter towards the two of them, glancing underneath her glasses, the smile not falling off her face, as she says, “a real Casanova is what you are.”   
“The two of them sure make an odd pair, don't they?”   
“The oddest but I must say I like the unlikeliness of the two of them together. Honestly, I'm rooting for you.”

Martin is sure that if he were to go to the bathroom now and look at himself in the mirror, not only would his skin resemble a tomato, if he were to actually perceive his own body, he would find his hands shaking and his heart beating faster. 

And at night, he knows, he will lie awake and stare at his ceiling. 

He will hear  _Jon's_ voice whispering an apology and sweet nothings into his ear and he will imagine feeling his calloused hands lying in his own once again, not for a shake this time, but holding on and holding on and holding him. 

And with this image in his head, he will find rest and dream of the man only to wake up ashamed.

“You two are just the worst. Remind me again, why are we friends?”   
“Because you love us, Martin and don't you forget,” Sasha waves a last goodbye and heads over to her own workplace, leaving Martin alone with Tim who grins at him like a hyena that just found its next snack. 


	5. It's Better When It's With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm really bad at sticking to a schedule. But here it is and maybe there will finally also come a little plot. Who knows though. Not at the expense of Martin no longer yearning for our boy, don't worry.  
> Anyway, how are you guys doing?

The day drags itself like chewing gum beneath his soles. Disgusting, annoying, way too long, and making him wonder what is wrong with people, that is. He spends it dealing with boring customers, saying things like “yes the syrup is sweet” and “yes, ma'am there is soy milk in the soy latte” and the worst of all: “Have a nice day and please visit us again soon,” while bearing a grin as if he didn't hate every second of this interaction and wasn't wishing to be tearing his hair out at the thought of having to see them again.   
All in all, a normal workday spent being bored out of his mind. Tim gives him little relief, this traitor of a man, who is allowed to leave after only four hours of work while Martin is forced to endure another four, which is just the universe discriminating against him and bullying him for no apparent reason.

As Tim leaves, Martin flicks him off, not because of jealousy of the man that just leaves him behind, but at the fact, that he won't stop rubbing it in his face and talking about him and Sasha going somewhere. Truth be told, Martin stops listening halfway through Tim's explanation and decides that he doesn't care where they're going, all he cares about is that they are, in fact, going and that's enough for Martin to despise them for the time being.

Being left alone, Martin finds himself idly writing down some poetry on a napkin, which in his opinion is just his natural answer to the obstacles lied down before him. You're confronted with the choice of staring at the wall and hoping for death to come or entertaining yourself. He decides to keep entertained and supposes he's valid for it. If for whatever reason, he were to think of wild and untameable hair and rough hands while writing, it surely didn't find any ground in reality, surely it's just a coincidence.

“What are you writing?”

Martin jumps back from the counter, eyes wide in surprise and meeting then another set of eyes which is Way Too Close.

Jon stands in front of him, looking a little worse for wear and pity fills his guts at the eyebags apparent beneath his eyes. Rough day, he supposes.   
But that's secondary for now, as the man in question leans forward to spy at the napkin that Martin should have taken with him when he jumped, but instead in his stupid reaction for flight when he should have stayed to fight, he had left it lying just beneath the other man's nose.   
“N-nothing,” he stammers and quickly reaches for it.   
The look in Jon's eyes though, he knows. He read something. Probably realized it is about him, it's obvious, Martin's not talented enough to keep secrets in his poems, he just spills his guts, pukes out his heart and hopes for someone to care.   
“I-” he wants to explain and defend himself, but is interrupted yet again.

“Poetry?” Jon looks up at him with his intense eyes, which seem so much too close and too big and too... Martin loses himself.   
The look on Jon's face seems so... Martin has to look away otherwise his face would take up a truly embarrassing color. How does he deserve to be looked at with so much interest, so much delight? There is honest joy in his big green eyes that Martin cannot comprehend. They seem to pin him down, make him just a bit more solid, in a way he hadn't known he wasn't before.

He wants to write another poem just about his eyes, which remind him of the color of sun shining through leaves, intense green with speckles of gold, and the softest brown hue just around his iris. They look like they should be part of the paintings surrounding them, look like they shouldn't be allowed to belong to a real person, like they should only be part of art, of literature. Them being real seems like a disgrace, looking directly into them feels like starring at the sun.

They should be forbidden to gaze at.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry” Jon looks away and takes a step back, his cheeks the same color Martin supposes his are.   
“No I should have paid attention, I'm sorry.” He says with a sigh. “Yeah, it's poetry...” He doesn't want to elaborate, doesn't know how to explain how creepy he has been, watching him and listening, and daydreaming about him.

“I never really got into poetry,” Jon starts saying and Martin has to force himself now to keep a neutral look on his face and not frown in confusion. That's a weird way to start cussing him out. “I don't really,” Jon makes an elaborate hand-gesture in the general direction of the cursed napkin, “get that.” He shrugs and Martin has to realize two things: a) Jon, as artful as he seems, is a philistine and b) he did not get that the poem was about him. This actually leads to a third observation: He's dense.   
Martin really has to school his look now, he's short of losing his mind.

“Oh,” he says simply, “well I study literature so I kind of has to at least try digging it.”   
'To dig smth' is not part of his normal vocabulary and having said this utterance, Martin believes he should start smelling toast soon, it would explain this situation.   
He also finds himself being a god damn liar. _Sure let me just pretend not to love poetry, let me just play it cool so you might think I'm worth your time. Good job, that's how you get the guy, Blackwood._

“Oh!” Jon's eyes light up once more and Martin is sure something in his head explodes, “that's for university!”

“I know I'm kind of late with the whole studying thing,” he says, feeling once more as if he has to explain himself as if he was worth less for that fact that life just got in the way.  
“Bullshit. It's never too late, life doesn't really stick to a schedule,” Jon looks like he's ready to throw punches if Martin were to dwell on his self-deprecation and his heart jumps up into his lungs, where no heart is supposed to be.

“Thanks,” he says then and feels a smile tug at his lips, feels his knees get weak. And Jon actually has the audacity to frown at him and honest to god ask: “What for?” not even in a playful way, he sounds serious as if the last thirty seconds had been a one-sided conversation.

Martin wants to bang his head against the wall.

However, one problem gone, another remains so Martin decides to frown right back at the man and click his tongue. “You look absolutely knackered.”

“I-,” Jon huffs and rolls his eyes. “I suppose I do.” If Martin was a little vainer, he'd believe to see a smile tug at the other's lips. But he isn't, so he doesn't.

“Not a good day?”  
“Let's say days that start with Elias usually aren't.”

“I think you have to elaborate for me, I don't really work _with_ him?” He doesn't know why he decides to formulate it as a question, “I'm just the guy that makes him tea, you know?”

“Yes, right.” And that's it, that's all he says. No actual elaboration, no 'let's go out and I tell you all about it,' just that.   
“So what brings you to this humble establishment?” Martin asks after the break took a moment too long, feeling himself get antsy and not wanting this conversation to die.   
“Oh yes, uhm.” Why does Jon stutter? Martin feels like she should blush once more but is unsure why exactly, for once he thinks he didn't do anything wrong. But he stutters as if embarrassed and it, in turn, embarrasses Martin. “Coffee, just a black coffee. I really need to stay a little more awake than I currently feel.”

“I could give you some more unsolicited medical advice, but you know, I get the feeling you will ignore it and instead chug down a can of energy drink from the vending machine.”  
“Probably.”  
“Yeah, I thought you might say that,” he says with a sigh and turns to the little kitchen to get him his coffee. The door closes behind him and he lets out a sigh, fighting the urge to close his eyes and dramatically slide down along the door, his heart hammering in his chest.   
What is going on? Why is this his life? Why is Jon talking to him, again? He swallows hard when he remembers how this morning ended, how he was sure to have fucked up badly enough for Jon to hate him. Hadn't he basically admitted to watching his channel?

But it's not the time for self-pity, he doesn't seem to hate him, so he won't give him any reason to now. Instead, Martin turns to actually get his order. He wants to return to the counter but comes to a stop before the door. There are two things he sees through the little glass window in the door, that appear to have changed.   
Jon has sat down, leaning against the counter, burying his head in his hands, as if fighting a headache and someone has decided to join him. Daisy, Martin recognizes her, she's part of the security staff and sometimes comes to buy chamomile tea, a caramel latte with ungodly amounts of sugar, and one black coffee. Martin feels himself taking in a harsh breath as he spies her, she's the kind of person that enters a room and fills it and it terrifies him. She's tall and broad-shouldered and always seems like she has somewhere to be, something to do like she's always on a mission. He has never seen her just sit or just chat, but that's exactly what she's doing now.

Just chatting with Jon, who is just sitting and waiting for his one black coffee. Oh.

He doesn't mean to, but that doesn't change the fact, that he does it. He waits in front of the door separating him from the two of them and listens. He knows it's bad, he does. And he's not sure about his goal with this either, but what if they are an item? What if they like each other so much it would hurt Martin, what if he's intruding a delicate situation? What if he'd be intruding on a conversation?  
And so he stops and listens.

“I can't do another day like this,” Jon half-whispers, half-hisses at her and Martin's heart aches at how desperate he sounds.   
“I know, he's a handful,” Daisy returns and sounds so so so different from the cool, calm and collected he had thought her to be.   
“A handful? Are you shitting me? He's the devil incarnate, he's a creepy little fucker, I wouldn't be surprised if he's able to listen in on this very conversation. This morning he asked me about my dreams, coincidentally shortly after he played the starring role in my very first nightmare about him,” his voice grows continually quieter and Martin has to put force into understanding him, “I constantly _feel his eyes_ on me.”   
“What was the nightmare about?” a new voice chimes in just as Daisy says “didn't you want to avoid him from now on?”  
An awful break where Martin only hears fabric rustling.  
“I got.. distracted,” Jon says and his voice sounds so soft, he isn't sure it's really him. “You don't get distracted,” Daisy says and Martin can swear he hears a smile in her voice, “or is it...”

Martin decides to ignore the goosebumps and clump in his guts that have formed in order to actually push through the door and bring Jon his coffee. He really doesn't want to spy on Jon spilling his feelings to his friends. (which he doesn't belong to, Martin reminds himself)   
The other person is Basira, security also, but he doesn't know anything about her apart from that, which is odd enough because he usually chats on a ground level with most people. Some people go to their hairdresser to chat, the museum staff goes to him, but she's never actually come to the coffee shop.   
“Martin,” Daisy greets him with a court nod.  
“The usual?” He asks, just to confirm his own conclusion.

“Except for the black coffee apparently,” she says with an incredulous look on her face and Martin doesn't want to analyse it. Martin wants his soul to stop trying to leave his body as he over and over and overthinks what sort of relationship they might have.  
“Alright, one second.” With that he puts down the coffee, which Daisy reaches for, and looks shortly at Jon, only to see that he's avoiding looking at him, to see that he is blushing. Martin wants to double-check but there's no denying it, his cheeks are tinted by a soft red hue.

He leaves before he has time to analyze it and stores, this too, away in a file marked 'for later consideration'.

As he returns, Daisy is eagerly sipping away the very black, very bitter coffee, Basira reaches for the chamomile and the hellish sweet caramel latte, it turns out is for Jon, who looks almost embarrassed as he reaches for it. “The sugar helps me stay awake,” he mumbles into the cup and Martin realizes he's been staring. “Oh yes, sure,” he says, ignoring the way his heart is hammering in his chest, “better than the energy drink, I suppose.”  
“Much better,” Jon says, meeting his eyes once more and his voice is once again so soft, Martin doesn't know what to do with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading this. Feel free to leave a comment, those always make my day.   
> Or hit me up on tumblr @miister-jacobi.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey pls come and shout at me on Tumblr @miister-jacobi  
> I'd be delighted


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